Symbol of Manhood
by Dea Liberty
Summary: For ladylalaith. A fic about Galahad's kilt. "Arthur had not been able to find trousers that fit him - and Galahad had to make do with a kilt." Sometimes, growing up is not all they make it out to be. GG SLASH


**Symbol of Manhood**

**Disclaimer:** Anything recognisable belongs to their respective owners, be it myths or whatever else. Everything here is the fictional work of the author herself and, unless otherwise stated, it is all in the author's mind.

**Pairings:** Gawain/Galahad

**Spoilers:** None.

**A/N:** Written for ladylalaith who requested a fic about "Galahad's skirt, preferably involving Gawain."

**Warnings**: SLASH.

**Symbol of Manhood**

When they had been drafted into service, Galahad had been a scrawny little thing, nothing more than skin and bone – and even _that_ was all petulant child. He was not only the youngest of Arthur's knights – but also the smallest. And, when he had first entered into service, Arthur had not been able to find any trousers that fit him – and Galahad had to make do with a kilt (only until he grew, Arthur assured him).

But Galahad was having none of that. Galahad threw a fit. A temper tantrum followed and, because Galahad happened to be waving around his new sword, the room emptied completely. Everyone seemed to have remembered something that needed doing – except Gawain and Arthur – and Arthur mumbled some excuse and he too shuffled out.

Gawain weathered out the storm, not at all trying to soothe the young knight (only avoiding blows when he needed to), but instead, just letting the younger boy wear himself out. Distantly, Gawain supposed that Galahad would grow up to be a very deadly fighter – after all, he could empty a room of knights that quickly, and at the age of eight too!

Soon, however, Galahad had worn himself out and crumpled, crying softly, to the ground. Gawain rushed to his side and gathered him into his arms, rocking him gently.

"M'not a girl, Gawain," Galahad mumbled into his neck, his breath hitching. "M'not. And m'not a child either."

Gawain smiled lightly, affectionately. "I know you aren't Galahad. I can see that." He ran his hand gently down Galahad's back and to the offending article of clothing. "And this doesn't change the fact that you're a man, you know. Imagine Lancelot in one of these. He's look like a drag queen. You, however, don't. And this way, we'll _all_ see that you grow into a fine man, right?"

Galahad nodded. "W'eva you say, G'wain," he slurred sleepily, making Gawain's heart clench at the trust in those simple words. And Gawain vowed never to let him down.

From then on, Galahad constantly sought refuge in Gawain's arms. He could only sleep if he was curled up by Gawain's side. He was comforted by the older boy's solid presence to scare off the nightmares, as well as Gawain's warmth on his bare legs.

It wasn't until his seventeenth birthday that Arthur finally gave him a pair of trousers. He's grown frustratingly slowly and had been all awkward, tripping over his own feet, anytime he did grow any significant amount. And he'd finally filled out enough for them to notice.

"Our Galahad – a man at last!" shouted Bors, lifting his mug of beer, and making the other knights laugh loudly. "He's been promoted to wearing trousers!"

Galahad grinned, eyes automatically catching Gawain's. He was slightly startled to see some regret flash over his face, soon replaced by a smile and genuine happiness. The regret, however, lingered in his eyes.

Galahad didn't quite understand that. Then again, Galahad didn't understand a lot of things about Gawain nowadays. He seemed to be distancing himself from him, and Galahad didn't like that one bit. It was as if Gawain was irritated at the way he i needed /i to be by his side to sleep. As if Gawain thought he was childish. He would show Gawain, he decided. He would show him that he was a man now. He wouldn't curl up by his side, so Gawain didn't have to wake up early and get his clothes or armour ready in the morning.

But Galahad knew he'd hate it. He loved sleeping next to Gawain. It wasn't only because he was used to it, but also because it reassured him that Gawain was i alive /i . They had been losing so many of their brothers; if he were to lose Gawain...he would surely die. What he felt for Gawain, he supposed, was a lot more than brothers are meant to feel for one another. And he was selfish to curl by Gawain's side, basking in his warmth with not strictly platonic feelings without Gawain's knowledge – but, when it came to this, Galahad was selfish. He could lose Gawain any day and, as long as he remained by his side, he could be sure that he'd die before he lost his best friend.

Galahad sighed, as he changed into his new trousers. The material felt coarse and itchy against his legs and, as he walked, he felt a little restricted by them. He felt smothered; he couldn't feel the wind on his legs, couldn't really feel how cold it was. He felt disoriented and...just, it wasn't as nice as he's imagined it to be.

And he wanted to see Gawain. But Gawain was nowhere to be found.

Galahad sighed again. It must mean that Gawain thought he was too old to shadow his every step, that he'd finally fulfilled his duty to raise Galahad – and now wanted nothing more to do with him.

That night, he lay curled up in the foetus position, yearning for Gawain's touch. He wanted nothing more than to be by his side, Gawain's arm thrown protectively over him, and feeling Gawain's warm legs on his own bare ones.

Instead, all he felt was nothing beside him, his own arms wrapped around himself, and a pair of itchy trousers on his legs. And he never felt more alone.

If this was what it was like to be a man, Galahad decided, he'd rather go back to being a boy.

Reluctantly, afraid to be pushed away, he padded over to Gawain's side and knelt down.

"Gawain," he whispered, reaching a hand down to touch the older man's shoulder.

Gawain, for his part, stayed very still, afraid that he was dreaming, even though he was not yet asleep.

"Gawain," Galahad called again, voice no more than a whimper.

The hand on his shoulder was very warm – and real. Gawain sat up to find Galahad holding back tears.

"What is it, Galahad?" He asked, concern evident in his tone. Why was kneeling by his bed at this time of night on his birthday? "Is there something wrong? Are you okay?"

Galahad bit his bottom lip, a habit he had; a sign that he was very nervous about something. Gawain reached up his hand and teased Galahad's lip loose. "Don't. You can tell me, Galahad. What's happened?"

Turning his face away from Gawain, he answered in a whisper, "I can't sleep."

"What?" Gawain was so startled he didn't think before the word slipped past his lips.

"I'm sorry Gawain. I really am. I'm sorry for being a bother. It's just that I can't sleep without – "

A finger to his lips cut off his babbling as soon as Gawain had caught on to what he was trying to say.

"I just...I know it's childish. And I'm sorry. But I just can't sleep without you – "

Gawain shook his head and lifted up the blanket without a word; Galahad climbed in hastily, as if afraid that Gawain would change his mind.

Automatically, Galahad settled by his side, fitting against Gawain like two pieces of a puzzle. Relief washed over the both of them, and they sighed in contentment, enjoying each other's presence.

Then Gawain realised something. Galahad wasn't wearing the trousers. He was wearing the kilt again. Gawain's breath hitched as Galahad shifted, bare legs brushing against his trouser-clad ones.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, and rested his head against Galahad's curls, breathing in his scent.

Galahad shifted again, and Gawain found one leg between Galahad's – and the young knight looking at him questioningly. Gawain gulped.

"I'm not a child anymore, Gawain."

"I know. I've known for a long time. But I never wanted to say. I thought if you were recognised as a man, then you'd grow out of wearing that kilt. And out of sharing me bad. You went the other way tonight – and that was proof enough."

"If you'd let me," Galahad began uncertainly, looking away, and becoming so unsure that it almost seemed like he was looking at that child, who was trying to convince himself that he was a man, again. "I'd never grow out of sharing your bed. And..." he paused, blush creeping across his cheeks. "I don't like those trousers. I prefer this kilt."

Gawain pulled the other man tight against him, clutching almost desperately. Obviously he'd been as afraid of losing Galahad as Galahad had been of losing him.

But it was alright now.

"And, I too prefer this kilt," Gawain whispered in his ear, hand sliding down Galahad's back – and to the offending article of clothing.

_Fin_

**A/N:** Well, that's it folks. Let me know what you think. Comments are adored. Flames are not.

-Dea


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